


Faulty Wiring

by crownlessliestheking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty moments, Bard and Tauriel are children on the inside sometimes, Evil building superintendent Azog refuses to fix anything, Evil landlord Smaug, F/M, Fili might just be the only sane one, Fluffy, Hiatus, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because of terrible apartment planning and faulty wiring I’ve been turning your kitchen lights on and off with the switch in my living room for fun when I hear you moving in there in order to make you think your apartment is haunted"-Feat. Kiliel, Bagginshield, and Barduil.<br/>Bilbo tries not to mess around with the lights too much, especially after an angry (albeit handsome) man from downstairs yells at him for it, though Bard and Tauriel, his roommates, have no such reservations.<br/>Thranduil swears he's going to move into their apartment if this continues (Bard is okay with that, really).<br/>Kili finds a way to reverse the wiring so he can have revenge, with the help of his brother of course. His uncle absolutely refuses to spend the night in his apartment, even though he's already chewed out the culprit for it.</p>
<p>[On Hiatus, probably indefinite]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 3 different people saw 3 different pairings in this, so I just gave up and crammed them all into one saga. Please, forgive me.  
> On a side note, I definitely have a problem starting fics. So many...so many. That AU list? All of them will be written, most likely. 
> 
> ~K

Bilbo Baggins had just begun to relax, savoring the first taste of solitude he’d had in nearly two weeks; his roommates were out for the night, Bard yelling something about visiting his three children who stayed with their mother (Bilbo still had difficulty believing that he was a father, though he did look younger than his thirty-two years), and Tauriel not even deigning to inform him of where she was going, though Bilbo assumed that she was with Legolas (after all, when was she not?).

He liked the two, he really did, otherwise he would have immediately moved out upon finding out precisely how loud they could be-and how childish. Tauriel’s vivacity matched the brightness of her hair, long and red and only held out of her face by a small braid; she laughed freely and woke late but rose early, finding her own quiet in the wee hours of the morning just as dawn’s fingers grasped the new day. Bard, insomniac though he was, often occupied a chair in the kitchen that could hold none other than him comfortably, and fell asleep there with a mug of coffee long gone cold in his hand nearly every night; he hated to be alone, though he sometimes went on long walks in the middle of the night-down to the docks, Bilbo suspected, since he always came back bearing the briny scent of the sea. Their odd hours ensured that they were rarely out of the apartment when Bilbo was awake and in it, and out of all of them, he spent the most time inside.

So when the occasion came that he had the place to himself, he cherished every moment of it. Or, he thought as an insistent knock on the door-more of a violent banging, really-wore on, he tried to.

Bilbo frowned. Maybe if he didn’t answer the door, they’d go away.

The knocking continued, echoing through the apartment. Bilbo’s frown morphed into a scowl-if Tauriel had forgotten her keys again, he was going to give her a thorough scolding. With a muffled groan of annoyance, he stood up, marching over to the door and squaring his shoulders, tongue-lashing at the ready.

“Tauriel, really, why is it that you feel the need to constantly forget your keys and then bang on the door as if your hand has turned into a bloody jackhammer?” Bilbo nearly shouted, yanking the door open and greeting Tau-

That wasn’t Tauriel. Oh dear.

“Um.”

“You live here, yes?” The stranger rumbled, glowering down rather impressively at Bilbo, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes, and what of it?” Bilbo narrowed his eyes, subtly pushing the door closed, only to be foiled by a scuffed boot being placed in its way imperiously.

“My nephew’s apartment,” he stated gruffly, as if Bilbo were supposed to extrapolate the rest of the man’s thoughts from those three words. He was wearing pajama pants and T-shirt that clung rather tightly to his broad chest and shoulders, his hair, longer than Bilbo would have expected from a man, cast over his shoulder in a messy braid. He was greying, hair at his temples and on his chin streaked with silver, though his face could not have been younger than Bilbo’s, and his eyes were an intense blue, the color of the blazing summer sky.

“What of it?” Bilbo asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You must realize that I have no idea what you’re talking about, since I don’t know you.”

“My nephew lives in the apartment downstairs,” the stranger clarified, his scowl intensifying beneath thick black brows. “And the lights keep flickering on and off at the oddest of hours. But never when he’s out.”

“O…kay?” Bilbo was beginning to have an idea of where this was headed, and he really was going to yell at Tauriel when she got back.

“The wiring is faulty and the building super refused to do anything, but he said that your,” here, the man jabbed a finger into Bilbo’s chest, almost sending him reeling backwards, “apartment is the source of the flickering lights.”

Of course he would. Azog was a complete arse, the worst superintendent anyone could ask for. Pale and menacing, scarred all over and tattooed, he looked very much the part of an imposing ex-con (he’d heard rumors that he’d been in for murder, and Bilbo did not doubt them at all), and despised everyone in the building except for the equally vile landlord Smaug (what sort of name that was, Bilbo had no idea), who Bard and Tauriel speculated Azog was in a relationship with. It was the only reason Azog had a job here, apparently, though Bilbo wasn’t inclined to believe it.

“Look here,” Bilbo glared back, swatting at the man’s outstretched finger. “It is not my fault that the wiring was done badly, and I’ll thank you very much to not go around practically stabbing people with your finger!”

“It is your fault that his lighting always goes on and off, _and_ the hot water never works properly when you’re in the shower,” the man snarled, narrowing his eyes. “And I’ll thank _you_ to be more considerate of others!”

“Excuse me?” Bilbo gaped. “I am the most considerate person in this apartment, I’ll have you know! _I_ don’t stay up to ungodly hours and flick lights on and off just because I enjoy the screams of ‘this apartment’s fucking haun-’,” he stopped, right in the middle of his imitation of the yells that often emanated from the downstairs apartment. Because that voice was currently addressing him, and its owner had gone a rather interesting shade of red.

“That was _you_?” Bilbo asked incredulously, fighting to hold back a laugh.

“Well-,” the man started uncomfortably, shifting on his feet.

“Well what? It most certainly not my fault that my roommates are just sadistic enough to enjoy the sound of your fear. Well, your fear, Thranduil’s threats,” Bilbo amended quickly, remembering the blonde’s constant promises to move in with them if Bard didn’t cut it out immediately.

“Thranduil has to deal with this shit too?” He looked far too gleeful at that prospect, and Bilbo couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

“Yes, the kitchen’s wiring is partially connected to his apartment, and Bard loves to drive him crazy by messing with the lights, though he’s managed to turn the toaster on and off a few times.” How, Bilbo had no idea, but Bard _was_ good with his hands-he worked as a mechanic, after all.

“Good. But you stop fucking with Kíli’s lighting, _now._ ” And the glower was back, and more impressive than ever before.

“I’m not the one messing with your nephew’s lights, I swear,” Bilbo protested, but the man was having none of that; he’d already turned around, and was halfway down the hallway, ignoring Bilbo completely. “And I’m not the rude one,” he snapped at the nearly-deserted hallway, slamming the apartment door with a huff.

The nerve of some people. He was going to have words with Tauriel-it was unfair that he had to take the blame for her ridiculous antics, and the thought of the stranger upset at him bothered him more than he would have liked. Perhaps it was because the man looked as if he could crush Bilbo’s skull with little effort, or at least knew someone that would.

Bilbo sighed, running his fingers through his curls and glancing around the empty apartment until he found precisely what he was looking for on the wall between Tauriel’s room and the kitchen, sitting innocuously off, since Bilbo, as a good neighbor, left it so to prevent something like what had just happened.

Well, no more of that. If the stranger was going to blame him for something he didn’t do, he might as well get back at him _and_ deserve the next yelling. A smirk that his mother would have been proud of with her Took blood, and that would have his father, a proper Baggins, rolling in his grave, appeared on his face.

The gloves were off, now.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. I've been trying to post this for all of yesterday but the damn site wouldn't load right ugh.  
> In any event, here's Chapter 2, and I'm terribly sorry for the delay.

Bard was trying to keep a straight face, he really was. But to see Bilbo in such a mood was just so damn entertaining, he couldn’t help himself; he found endless amusement when the shorter man’s politeness, seemingly a bottomless well, ran dry, and he let his sharp tongue out, looking for blood. His face went red and blotchy in an admittedly cute way, and his nose scrunched up like a child that had been denied their toy.

“Bard, are you even _listening_?” he demanded, crossing his arms and tapping his bare foot against the wooden floors, narrowing his eyes. Bard reminded himself to look as if he were paying attention, schooling his expression into the appropriately repentant downwards glance. “Oh, you’re hopeless.”

Tauriel had the nerve to giggle at that-like she was any better, _she_ was the one who enjoyed fucking with the downstairs neighbors, especially the dark haired twin in the apartment below them. And, apparently, the way his uncle had thought the apartment was haunted (though Bard could admit that he and Bilbo had found that particular detail utterly hilarious). The only one Bard fucked with was the hot guy down the hall from said nephew and uncle pair, Thranduil. They hadn’t gotten off to a bad start, exactly, but the man put up such a cold front, wearing impassiveness and indolence like armor, that Bard had nearly immediately decided that he wanted to see how far he could push the man to get a reaction out of him.

So far, though, he’d been largely unsuccessful, receiving only the barest of irritated glances in return, and cold silence when they met in the laundry room on Sundays. Not that Bard specifically planned to be there those days so he could catch a glimpse of the admittedly attractive man.

“And _you_ ,” Bilbo whirled around to glare at Tauriel, his expressive face twisting to show exactly how displeased he was. “You’re the cause of all this! And you’re never home to face the repercussions, which is absolutely ridiculous. Why is it that I always have to deal with your messes, and get yelled at by angry strangers that look like lumberjacks?”

“Did he actually?” Bard cut in, highly amused by the comparison. They were in the heart of London, after all-there wasn’t a lumberjack to be found for miles.

“A little. Muscular, bearded. Seemed a bit hairy, too,” Bilbo mused, momentarily distracted. Bard shot Tauriel a victorious grin, and she nodded her approval. “It was the first thing that came to mind, alright?”

“Of course. So what was the conclusion of all this?” Tauriel asked, settling herself down on their faded couch with the easy grace of a cat. Bard greatly appreciated her ability to get to the heart of the situation, no matter how long-winded the narrator was.

“The conclusion was,” Biblo sniffed, glancing at the door as if he feared that the man would come bursting in again, “that if he was going to accuse me of something I didn’t do, then I might as well do something to deserve the yelling that I will get in the future, since I know that you,” here, he cast a particularly disdainful look at Tauriel, “won’t stop.”

She shrugged unapologetically, throwing her head back and laughing, the sound dancing through their shared apartment.

“Now that’s over,” Bard said hastily, checking the time on the cracked clock that hung above the light switch that none of them ever truly bothered to fix.

“ ‘I have to go do my laundry’,” Bilbo and Tauriel said simultaneously, rolling their eyes.

“More like stare at Thranduil’s ass and attempt no form of communication beyond flickering the lights in his apartment,” Tauriel snickered behind her hand. Bard was more than a little offended-he did not _stare_ at the other man’s ass, though, objectively speaking, it was well-rounded and quite nice. And he was perfectly capable of communicating with Thranduil, too, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to breach the silence between them during that hour on Sundays. It seemed sacred, almost.

“Or, you know, actually wash our clothes,” Bard scowled at them, Bilbo remaining impressively unrepentant and Tauriel biting her lip in an effort to keep from laughing more.

“I’m not complaining about that, not one bit. In fact, I’ll be quite likely to thank this Thranduil for having such a nice posterior, since this is the only housework you actually do, and it provides incentive,” Bilbo explained, patting him once on the shoulder. “Do remember to actually separate the clothes this time, I’d rather not have my boxers stained pink by one of yours or Tauriel’s undergarments.”

“Sorry, Bilbo,” she offered him a winning grin. “Red matches.”

“Carpets match the drapes match the room’s décor,” Bard muttered, bending over to pick up the full hamper from where it stood in the corner of the room near the door, Bilbo and Tauriel each having discarded their respective dirty laundry in it.

“Get out,” she waved him off, and he rolled his eyes, stepping out of the apartment anyway. As he shut the door, he heard Bilbo, rather politely, considering his prior rant, ask Tauriel how she changed the lights in the stranger’s apartment, the details of which she began to explain with great glee.

Honestly, he thought, shifting the hamper in his arms as he headed down the stairwell, it’s not as if Tauriel can give him crap for not actually talking to Thranduil, especially not in consideration of the expression Kíli, her victim, wore whenever they crossed paths. Bard had a bet with Fíli, the blonde who lived just across the hall from his younger brother, and was thankfully spared from the faulty wiring that plagued his relations (and Thranduil), on how long it would take the two to get together-and who would cave and confess first. Personally, Bard thought they would be a perfect match, though a nightmare for any mature adult in a five-mile radius (though according to Bilbo, Bard managed to be excluded from that group). Fíli still held on to prejudice, since he absolutely despised her best friend’s father, and consequently her employer-which Bard found ridiculous, because the idea of Tauriel holding a job, let alone one as an associate to a rather high-profile lawyer, was ludicrous. Though the idea of Thranduil in a suit most certainly was not.

He kicked the door to the laundry room open (Azog, asshole that he was, had never really bothered to fix the fact that it never shut properly, and Smaug, even bigger asshole, never actually made him fix it. Bard and Tauriel were certain that they were a couple, since Azog could never have gotten the job otherwise, seeing as he was an ex-con, probably in for manslaughter, and was the worst building superintendent Bard had the misfortune to meet. It was the only explanation), only to receive a cold glare from the blonde that sat in the rickety old laundromat chair as if it were a throne.

“Hey there, Thranduil,” Bard said, wincing at the alarmingly loud sound that issued from his mouth. He had just meant to raise his voice a little, to be heard over the rumbling of the washer. He was acting like a lovestruck teenage girl, and it was completely ridiculous.

“Bard,” the other answered, with only a quick, bored flick of the eyes upwards to him in greeting. It was hopeless-this, he would explain to Tauriel over their midnight coffee, was why his only hope of communication was the lights. He’d actually debated using them to send a message in Morse code once, when he was half-delirious from lack of sleep and surplus of whiskey, something like ‘Will you go on a date with me?’ His waking mind had decided that it would come off as ‘Oh look I’m a bloody weirdo who’s apparently socially inept, since I’m using your fucking lights to ask you out since I can’t do it in words’, which most certainly would not do.

Absolutely hopeless.

He huffed a sigh, turning around to start sorting clothes into lights and darks; he’d do the whites first, and carry those upstairs, since an awful lot of their collective underwear was light (except for the frankly hilarious neon colored boxers Tauriel gave him as gag gifts, and her brightly patterned…lingerie? He wasn’t entirely sure what to call it), and Bard, for one, was running low, and Tauriel, well, she’d most likely been wearing the same bra for the past week.

The silence is oppressive, though if Thranduil wasn’t here, he knows it would not be; it’s the sort of heaviness quiet gets when there is another person in the room, leaden with expectations and second-guessing and half-planned responses that are immediately discarded. Yet, Bard makes no move to break it, steeling himself and pointedly ignoring the urge to glance backwards at the other.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers rooting around for the spare change that should be rattling around in there, waiting to be consumed by the tarnished old washer, and the equally dilapidated dryer, always with a perpetually depressed look. Bilbo said that it needed love in the form of a fresh coat of paint and company other than its ancient cousin; Tauriel said it needed mental help. Bard simply thought it was a sad looking dryer, but still an inanimate object, and therefore in need of nothing. Sometimes, he just did not understand his roommates, though they were his closest friends and greatest source of entertainment.

“Come on,” he muttered, even as he pulled his hand out to reveal nothing but empty fingers. A quick check of his other pockets told him there were no tokens to be found there; Bard realized that he’d left his jeans with them upstairs on his bed. “Dammit!”

“I can lend you a laundry token, if you’ve forgotten yours.”

Bard’s heart nearly stuttered to a stop at the smooth voice, a jolt of surprise and something else seizing his body once he realized it was directed at him. Unexpectedly kind, he noted, a small smile on his face as he turned.

“Yeah, that’d be great. I can pay you back,” _perhaps at dinner tomorrow night_ , his mind finished, though his mouth had the sense to clamp itself shut before that could be said aloud.

“You can pay me back by leaving my lights alone,” his expressive eyebrows tilted downwards into an angry ‘v’, his eyes flashing like light catching the depths of a storm-clouded ocean.

“I can’t exactly navigate my apartment in the dark,” Bard frowned, catching the coin flicked in his direction, aimed for his face, in one hand and sliding it into the washing machine slot. “I do need the lights to see.”

“You could always go to bed at a reasonable hour,” Thranduil sniffed, crossing his arms and glancing down at the screen of his phone. “I can hear your footsteps as you roam through the hallways, and it would be more considerate of you to learn how to walk with some form of stealth. And the dark circles under your eyes are worryingly prominent.”

“Oh,” was all Bard could manage, a woefully inadequate response. “I’ll try to keep it down when I go for an early morning walk then?”

“Early morning?” Thranduil scoffed. “That is not ‘early morning’, that is ‘ungodly hour when most people are still asleep’!”

“I’m quiet enough that you’re the only one who has ever complained about it,” Bard contradicted him, rather offended that the man had said otherwise, and in a tone that suggested that Bard had the stealth of a herd of panicked, rabid elephants. “So perhaps you should get some sleep.”

“I’m a light sleeper,” he defended himself, yet his tone barely changed beyond jaded boredom. “But once you leave, I don’t let myself fall asleep only to be woken up again when you walk back. The nights that you don’t come back, I hardly sleep at all.”

Bard blinked. The way he’d said that, it almost sounded like Thranduil was _worried_ about him. Bard was fairly certain that it was a slip of the tongue, but the sudden, barely visible flush over ivory skin and widened eyes told him that perhaps it wasn’t so, and Bard couldn’t help the thrill that danced through him at it.

“You could come with me, if you’d like,” he blurted out. And then nearly clapped a hand over his mouth in mortification, for Thranduil looked completely shocked, his lips (which looked extremely soft, Bard noticed) forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. “I don’t sleep well, but the walks, they help. Sometimes I end up wandering a bit too far to come back, and just grab breakfast and go straight to work.”

“I think that sounds rather calming,” Thranduil admitted, tilting his head to the side. “Perhaps I will join you on your next one, if you’d wait in the building lobby for five minutes after you pass by my apartment.”

“I would be glad to,” Bard replied with a smile, though his heart was racing.

“Do you know the brothers  in the apartments right next door to mine?” Thranduil asked, his eyes gaining a mischievous glint that Bard had seen far too many times in the eyes of his son. On his father, it looked jaw-droppingly hot, but no less dangerous.

“Yes, Fíli and Kíli. They’re quite nice,” he nodded, checking the time left in the spin cycle. “What about them?”

“Do you know if they’re heavy sleepers? Or if their uncle is? I do believe he’s stopped sleeping at Kíli’s apartment, thanks to Tauriel,” Thranduil chuckled at that, and it rich like molten chocolate.

“I think that we could find out,” Bard offered, a ghost of a grin on his face. Fíli would most likely attempt to skin him for disrupting his sleep, but it would be worth it. So, very worth it, he thought to himself as his smile widened, mirrored by the first true smile he’d seen Thranduil wear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have this out quicker than expected, and I daresay an unexpectedly serious plot has unfolded in between Pre-Calculus and Rotational Motion in Physics :)  
> Would you guys prefer a more serious plot, or just plain romance-centric? Because the serious plot will have romance, just that will take more of a backseat at certain times v.v 
> 
> ~K

Kíli was utterly miserable.

There was no other way to put it, the youngest Durin mused, face resting on the blessedly cool granite of his kitchen counter, but even that was turning a disgusting lukewarm. This was torture of the worst kind. Not only was his apartment blazing hot because his stupid air conditioner unit had decided that the best thing to do was _fall out the bloody window as he was trying to adjust it_ (and he didn’t even have a _fan_ in this fucking oven of an apartment), but he also had to deal with the lights constantly flickering on and off at the most inconvenient of hours, and on top of that, he was _sure_ Azog was turning the heat on full blast.

Sure, it happened before, and he used to it; it was Tauriel, after all, and he knew that the admittedly gorgeous redhead from his European history class never kept proper sleeping hours-but it had gotten _worse._ Unbearably so. And Kíli had a niggling suspicion that it very much had to do with his uncle marching upstairs to completely _humiliate_ Kíli in front of Tauriel (and he thanked all the gods there were that she hadn’t been home, every single one of them), and then come back red in the face and looking more pissed off than he had when he’d left.

Kíli honestly wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or terrified that someone had stood up to his uncle while he was in that state.

Thorin wasn't here today, he'd left early in the morning (before dawn, and how he did that, Kili had absolutely no idea), ashen-faced after the phone had rung, and a whispered shouting match ensued (probably with Mum, if he was to be honest with himself). He'd probably be in a right mood when he got back, though Kili envied his missing of this disgusting heat. 

He got up, fanning himself half-heartedly with his hand as he slouched over to the door, the heat nearly unbearable-an unfortunate consequence of living on the ground floor just above the boiler room. Though there was a fairly high chance that Azog was deliberately fucking with him to get back at him and Fee for the flour in the stairwell. It had been brilliant, but _so_ not worth this.

He dragged his feet, groaning theatrically as he opened the door to his apartment and trudged across the hall to Fíli’s, regardless of the fact that he was clad only in boxers and a tattered ribbon he’s not sure where he found to tie up his hair.

“Fee, open up!” He knocked on the door, relishing the cool-well, cooler-air of the hallway.

“Just a minute, Kee,” the answering voice was muffled; his brother was probably stuffing his face with the leftover lasagna Mum had made. Not that he could blame him, it was seriously good stuff-he’d ask her for the recipe if he or Thorin could cook without it ending in disaster, but since their last attempt had ended in copious amounts of smoke and even more yelling from the dick landlord, Kíli figured it was best that he just ask her to bring some over next time she visited.

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up, I’ve been half-boiled in my apartment,” he fidgeted, knocking on the door louder. “I think there are people coming and I’m basically just in my boxers.”

“Why are you half-naked?” his brother’s voice was closer, sounding mildly perturbed, muted footsteps approaching the door.

“Half-boiled, Fee. Shedding layers was the only way to survive in that heat,” he complained, aware of the whine that crept into his voice but unable to help it. It really had been awful.

“I should leave you out there to rot.” The door opens to reveal Fíli, normally neatly braided hair in a tousled mess, a spoon sticking out of his mouth. “Goin’ round interrupting people’s breakfasts, it’s not right, little brother.”

“Fee, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“Break. Fast. Did I fucking stutter?”

“Whoever showed you tumblr is going to pay,” Kíli rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to tug on his brother’s new appearance fad-braids on his mustache, ending in his pair of the metal beads Uncle had made for them both one summer. “Can I come in or not?”

“Well I certainly hope so, though the view is quite nice!” a lilting, entirely new voice calls out, amusement rippling through the words.

Tauriel.

“Oh my god.” He mutters, and Kíli can _feel_ the flush flame its way up his face to the very tips of his ears, even as he turns his head to catch a glimpse of her; long legs are clad in knee-high brown boots and dark blue skinny jeans, her torso in a tank top with a plaid shirt over it, and layered necklaces (he thinks he could make better ones for her, though he’d never really offer), hair at her temples braided back behind her head, the rest flowing free.

 _Beautiful_ , he thought, before he caught himself, though Kíli makes no move to correct the mental stumble.

“Hello there, Tauriel,” Fíli, goddamn him, makes no motion to let his brother in, and simply waves cheerily at the ginger who is barely suppressing giggles. Kíli sees his chances withering away by the second, and kisses them a desperate, unfortunately clingy goodbye.

“Hi,” he manages to mumble out, barely able to look her in the eye. Kíli is confident about himself most days, but today it’s belied by the slight layer of pudge over his abdominals (not helped by Mum’s frankly delicious cooking) that used to be so defined, and his scruff in place of a proper beard, and wild hair where it should be tamed-hair that looks really good on Uncle and looked really good on Fee before he cut it short and somehow manages to look so _weird_ on him.

She did say that she enjoyed the view, though, and that’s little reassurance but he will derive whatever comfort he can from it.

“Best get inside before you’re arrested for public indecency,” Legolas quipped from beside her, his own long, blonde hair artfully braided back-and Kíli is certain that Tauriel is the one to do it, just as he is certain they’re together, and can’t help the sickening burn of jealousy in his gut at the thought.

“Azog should be arrested for cruel and unusual punishment,” he frowned, glaring at his apartment door.

“I honestly can’t tell if he hates you or Uncle more,” Fee chuckled, rubbing at his chin.

“I honestly have no idea how you manage to get off scot free every time,” Kíli narrows his eyes at his brother, whose apartment seems to be a lovely temperature.

“Well, he turned the AC in my apartment all the way up, hoping I’d freeze, but I’ve got a bunch of those electric blankets from last winter when Mum came to stay, and you know how she thinks anything under 21 degrees is too cold,” his brother shrugged. Well, that made a surprising amount of sense.

“Surprised he hasn’t been messing with your lights, courtesy of the faulty wiring around here,” Tauriel said, all too innocently, her viridian eyes wide, though Legolas is cracking up at the double entendre.

“He’d have to break into your apartment to do that, and I think that’s a violation of his parole,” Fee grinned at her knowingly.

“Smaug wouldn’t report it,” she waved it off, and Kíli’s not going to laugh, not when she’s in the company of that ridiculous poncy git Legolas.

“Well, this was a lovely conversation, but I’m going to go inside now. Before I get arrested, or Uncle comes back,” Kíli cut in hastily, shoving his brother aside and rushing into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. The last thing he sees is Tauriel’s bemused expression, and Legolas’ arm slung casually around her shoulder.

“What was that?” Fíli asked him, as soon as the sound of their footsteps had faded.

“Nothing,” he replied miserably, near collapsing onto the couch. Fee was right, it’s absolutely _freezing_ in his apartment, but ice-cold air is better than the burning hell he’d just come from. For now, at least.

“Is it Tauriel again?” He can’t bear the sympathy, the fucking _pity_ that oozes off of his brother’s lips, even though he knows his situation is nothing but pathetic-Kíli, the youngest of the family and forever the butt of a joke, not to mention almost a foot shorter than Tauriel (which bothers him more than he admits, even to himself), pining over the lovely lady from his history class-who is clearly involved with that asshole Thranduil’s asshole son. Worst of all, he’s fairly certain (like 90% sure) that she _knows_ how he feels about her, and yet the only conversation they’ll have is in class, or through his apartment lights that she _refuses_ to stop messing with.

“It hurts, Fee,” he mumbled, rolling over onto his face, his cheeks still burning with embarrassment.

“It’s okay, Kee. She’ll come around. Even if she’s not interested in you like that now, it doesn’t mean that she won’t be in the future.” And then Fíli is there, fingers carding through his hair, and he lets out a sigh.

“She knows, doesn’t she? I mean, am I obvious? Because I think she knows but she won’t ever say anything about it so I can’t tell for sure. But I think she does,” Kíli added, the words falling from his lips and tumbling over each other gracelessly.

“You do blush a lot, and Mahal, that one time with the trousers line,” Fee chuckled quietly, and Kíli can’t help but to join in-it had been ridiculous, but he’d been a little starstruck by her.

“I wouldn’t have used it if I’d known that she and Legolas were a thing, and you know, that she could never possibly be interested.” He was ashamed to say that he was pouting quite a bit at the thought, something inside him constricting painfully.

“Tauriel…and Legolas?” Fee sounded shocked, incredulous, and he sat up, turning to look at his brother.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” And damn that seed of hope that immediately started to worm its green shoots back out.

“Because…they’re not a thing? They’re practically brother and sister, Kee,” and his brother is smiling wide and white at him, flashing that dazzling grin that so many prefer to Kíli’s own mischievous smirk. But Kíli couldn’t care less, not now that there’s hope rising in his chest like golden bubbles of champagne, fireworks dancing in his mind, and an irrepressible smile tugging at his lips.

“Do you think she might be interested?” The question of the year, and he both wants and doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I know she is, why else would she fiddle with your lights so much?” Fíli raised an eyebrow, and Kíli couldn’t help but let out a rather unmanly squeak of joy, hope blossoms bursting and unfurling in his heart. “She’s trying to get your attention.”

“Well she didn’t need to do that, just walking into the room, or smiling at me would have worked. Or even talking to me,” he was pouting and he knew it, but there’s no heat behind it.

He has a chance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot is introduced, and we have a Thorin chapter, and some nice sibling interaction. Nice should probably be in quotation marks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took me so long to churn out v.v  
> AP Exams and I must study, plus I've been battling with this smut scene for Sleazy and I just-  
> Yeah.   
> But the plot, it thickens :)

Thorin Durin was decidedly not having a very good week.

He glowered at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the weary lines carved into his face, the silver slowly threading through his unkempt, long hair, his beard equally messy, and the purple shadows pressed into the hollows beneath his eyes. The cramped guest room was the best that Dwalin’d had to offer, but Thorin had no complaints, even though he hadn’t managed to sleep a wink that night.

It’s not as if his insomnia would have been cured by an uncomfortably lumpy mattress or too-thin pillows or a room that smelled of dust and the overpowering cologne Dwalin had loved, much to the despair of all in his vicinity, in his youth-a scent that Thorin had thought he’d never smell again, not after his sister with her tongue of razors had told him that he’d smelt like an explosion at the Axe factory.

He was honestly surprised to find that he’s missed it dearly, disgusting as it is. It reminds him of when things were easy, when Erebor was his bright future, not a burden he’d abandoned on the back of his little sister, when he smiled freely and one was three and they were all young and happy.

And yet here he was, coming at the sound of tears in her voice over the phone, leaving his nephews and his job without a word (though he was secretly happy to be out of the apartment with that ridiculous wiring, it was unnerving how the lights would flicker on and off).

First, he had yelled at the poor, diminutive upstairs neighbor, who very clearly had nothing to do with the lights turning on and off-at first, that is, though Thorin supposed that he very well had brought on what had happened next. The man had the face of a cherub, and riotous curls and warm hazel eyes that reminded him inexplicably of a forest; he’d been the picture of innocence, and the way his face had crumpled, Thorin almost immediately felt bad and left with a vaguely snarled threat-truthfully, he had no idea _what_ it was he’d said to the man, but it must have been offensive to provoke the lights that flickered with an uncanny precision of when he was in the apartment alone.

Thorin had a strong suspicion that it was because of the lack of noise from his nephews, though he couldn’t be absolutely certain.

And it was for them that he was doing this, he reminded himself, grinding the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, as if he could rub away the weariness that had settled deep within him. It was for them that he would talk to his sister for the first time in five years, for them that he would set foot in the company building he had sworn never to enter again. All of it, for them-because it was for them that Dís had called him for the first time in five years, and it was a future that they deserved. Something to fall back on-and he knew that Fíli would be happy to, though Kíli was as wild a spirit as ever.

“Thorin, she’s here,” Dwalin’s voice rumbled through the old oak door, and Thorin took a deep breath, steeling himself as he strode towards it, opening it to reveal the intimidating, scarred bulk of one of his best friends.

“Downstairs?” he queried in way of a greeting, a flash of irritation flickering through him at how he needed to crane his neck to meet Dwalin’s eyes.

“Aye, an’ she don’t seem too happy, mate,” he chuckled ruefully. “Yer sister’s as much a firecracker as ever.”

“Wish me luck then,” he muttered, walking out the door, a heavy blow landing on his back to comfort him.

“Ye’ll need it,” Dwalin snorted, gesturing for Thorin to go down the stairs. “Ladies first.”

“Then you’re breaking the rule by making me go,” he retorted, a part of him warming at the old banter they traded.

“Aye, but yer the one she called,” the other shrugged gracelessly, and there is no way he can argue with that, so he goes down the stairs with the air of a man walking to his own death.

“Brother.” Dís sat on the couch, dressed in navy blue and silver, looking elegant and dangerous all at once, but all Thorin can see is the grey in her hair and the lines in her eyes and the fact that she looks so, _so_ tired and her hands are shaking. And all he can think is that she has grown up far too soon, had to do far too much. Her words will be nothing in comparison to the guilt ravaging through him, salt water lapping at the torn and broken cracks of his soul.

“Dís,” he whispered, his voice too quiet, too hoarse, but he couldn’t bear to have her talk to him like the word ‘brother’ was an insult, something synonymous with ‘traitor’. Though, in a way, he supposed it was.

“You came.” And then she was surging forward, crashing into his arms like they were fifteen and nine again, and the years and arguments and distance and loss never happened. Thorin missed her unbelievably, and that was when he knew that this trip was worth it.

“You called,” he choked out, burying his face in her hair. There was much to fix between them, but now he knows that they can mend it.

“Yes…there’s a problem,” she released him reluctantly, her hand trailing to grasp his as she looked into his eyes, and he flinches at the worry expressed so clearly in them.

“So I gathered. What happened?” All business now, Thorin realized, and his heart clenched at the memory of a wild, carefree girl with forever muddy boots and dress hems.

“Smaug,” she uttered, and Thorin felt the color drain from his face immediately.

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head vehemently. “No, we got rid of him. Father and Grandfather-Dís, they got him arrested, he can’t be back!”

“But he is,” she replied, her voice weighed down with fear and anxiety. “Though not in name. You know that splinter company, Moria?”

Thorin nodded. He does know it-it was something his grandfather had fought so hard to gain after they had almost lost Erebor, Inc. Moria had been meant to be their security, a legacy for him and Dís and Frerin to inherit. But Frerin had run away soon after, and Thorin could no longer face his sister after their father had died in the fire at the hotel they’d been staying at. Secretly, he felt as if his siblings blamed him for it, for not saving Thráin, and that was what had driven them apart.

“Now it’s run by Bolg,” Dís continued. The name was unfamiliar to him. “Son of Azog.”

“Azog? As in my…building superintendent?”He questioned, raising an eyebrow. There had to be another-there was no way _Azog_ was his fucking superintendent of all things. He was still supposed to be in jail…just like Smaug.

He’d never seen the man, and he’d thought that strange, thought him a simple recluse.

Come to think of it, no one had truly seen Azog in good light.

What if-

“Do you know the name of your landlord?” Dís asked him, her voice heavy with conviction.

“No…Kíli and Fíli were the ones who signed the lease to their apartments.” He creased his eyebrows, trying to remember a name hidden in the tiny blocks of words.

“No need to think too hard, brother mine, you may break something.” A ghost of the old teasing. “I can tell you the name-Smaug.”

“They wouldn’t be that stupid, they-,” he started, indignant and furious.

“It’s not stupidity, it’s ignorance, Thorin! He owns near a hundred apartments in London, and why do you think he bought the building you and my boys lived in?” She was shouting now, her eyes narrowed in an all-too familiar glower.

“No,” he shook his head dumbly.

“Yes,” she hissed from between gritted teeth and a set jaw. “To keep an eye on you, to make sure you weren’t going to be a problem when he made his move. Why do you think I wouldn’t tell you any details over the phone? Why do you think I always asked my boys to find a better place?”

“Dís, I didn’t-,” he began again, his voice pleading, desperate, his heart pounding a sickening beat.

“Don’t you _dare_ say you didn’t know, Thorin Durin. It’s your _fucking job_ to know, to protect them-and now they’re in danger and they don’t even know it!” she screamed at him, her eyes flaring with an inner, mad fire.

It always came back to this. The unspoken ‘and now you’ve failed them, just like you failed father’ hung heavy in the air between them, Dís’ harsh breathing punctuating the jagged silence.

She took a deep breath, obviously composing herself, and straightened her back. Somehow, she made him feel small though he towered a full six inches over her.

“Now look here, Thorin. You are going to go back there and tell my children the truth. And after that, you are going to find Thranduil, and make him listen to us this time. Don’t worry, he lives in the same building,” she added with a bitter twist to her mouth. “And with the cases he’s lost recently, and with them his credit? I’d say he’d be pretty pissed to find out that Smaug’s bugged his apartment.”

Mahal, no. Anyone _but_ the bloody Oropherion-Greenleaf.

“And don’t give me that look-you know he’s the best, and right now, we need the best. Smaug almost had Erebor in his clutches, and I’m going to make damn sure he never comes that close again. Even if it costs me everything I have,” she swore, and that was when Thorin knew that his sister had grown up more than him, that she deserved the title of CEO more than he ever would.

“Yes,” he bowed his head in acknowledgment, though the gesture was clumsy, unused, and strained with the weight of the new knowledge she’d dumped on him.

How he wished that the short man upstairs and his mischievous streak were once more the worst of his problems.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I am back. APs are basically over, and so I now have the freedom to write instead of study! So here's the newest chapter, in which we see some Thranduil :)

“No,” Thranduil scowled, unable to completely mask the dislike and contempt dripping from his voice. He was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt that he’d bought just yesterday since he didn’t own anything more casual than his pajama pants-and walking around in a dress shirt and the green and white plaid pants his son had gotten him had earned Thranduil some odd stares that he did not appreciate at all. And he most certainly did not appreciate the glowering individual currently blocking his way to the second of his midnight walks with Bard.

It’s not that he despised all the Durins-Dís and her quick wit had been an endless source of amusement for him before they, too, drifted apart, a rend caused by their grandfather and maintained by Thranduil and her brother almost religiously. It was simply that they attracted trouble like honey did flies, and Thranduil cared for neither insects nor scandal.

“Why not?” the impetuous fool demanded, time having failed to beat patience into Thorin Durin. Thranduil had long learned that lesson-he could wait, wait for the opponent to break down, wait for them to worry themselves sick over anticipating his next move and planning their own. It was part of what made him so successful.

“Because I don’t want to,” he snapped, eyes flashing with rage. Yes, he could wait, but he preferred to be on time, and certainly did not like keeping others waiting. “Is that not enough of a reason for you?”

“No, it isn’t,” Durin glared mutinously, his jaw set stubbornly. “I’ll need a better one.”

“Then you’ll suffer, for that will suffice. I am late,” Thranduil took a step closer, into the Durin’s personal space, the sadistic part of him enjoying how the other flinched visibly.

“It’s about Smaug,” Thorin Durin blurted out, as if the name were a hot ember in his mouth. Thranduil froze. It couldn’t be…Smaug Trâhald was supposed to still be rotting in jail-he’d been caught for embezzlement years ago-and he certainly didn’t get out on good behavior. Smaug had nearly destroyed his firm last time, just for even considering helping the Durins. Thranduil didn’t want to risk him truly doing it this time, though his intentions of helping were nonexistent, this time.

“I don’t care,” Thranduil enunciated carefully, sidestepping the broader man. “He’s not my problem anymore.”

“He owns this building, you know.”

That gave Thranduil pause, but he’d known that, hadn’t he? He’d signed the lease, of course, read through every word of it twice, but thought nothing of it, assumed that they simply hadn’t seized the property yet. Oh the irony, he thought with a twisted grin, that he would be living in the house of his enemy-and trapped there by the horrendous inconvenience of a veritable truckload of paperwork that was involved in an address change.

“I signed the lease, I’m aware,” he responded, raising an eyebrow and affecting nonchalance. “But that does not mean I’ll be giving out my time to a charity case like yours, Durin, so I suggest you move out of the way and find yourself a different lawyer.”

“But you’re the best,” the words sounded as if they greatly pained the other man to say, which Thranduil appreciated more than the compliment itself.

“I am very much aware of that,” Thranduil stated, unable to entirely keep the arrogance from his voice-after all, who was he to deny the truth? “However, I cannot help you. Have you never heard the phrase ‘do not poke a sleeping dragon in the eye’?”

“I see that you will be of no real help then, you faithless-,” the stubborn man clenched his jaw, effectively cutting off the unflattering adjectives, managing to tame his snarl into a grimace.

“I am simply stating that it would be unwise of you-and of me-to irritate Smaug while living in the building he owns. Now if you will excuse me,” he breezed past Durin, whose face was already turning an interesting shade of plum-red, his eyes blazing with an intensity that shook Thranduil to the core. The man stood resolute as a rock carved into the hallway before he relented, allowing Thranduil to walk by uninhibited but for the hard, sharp point of his shoulder rather rudely jostling him.

He gave the other his best impassive stare before heading to the stairwell-far less dangerous than the elevator, which was probably as faulty as the wiring in his apartment, with a far less attractive individual pulling the strings. Luckily, he only lived on the second floor, and two flights of musty stairs riddled with cobwebs got him downstairs quickly.

Thranduil had no idea what the Durins were planning, and quite honestly, he did not want to know, or be involved in any way. Thranduil had a sense of self-preservation, and no intention of aggravating the landlord. His apartment was barely a block away from his office-an immense convenience that had allowed him to sleep in later than normal, which he appreciated greatly, as the midnight walks with Bard left him exhausted, though he’d never complain.

The man waved to him, shadows dark under his eyes and hair a tousled mess that somehow manages to look good (something Thranduil envies, since he has to wrangle his bedhead into a straight, flawless cascade before he even looks halfway presentable).

“Evening,” he drawled, his lips curving into a tired, but familiar grin.

“Evening,” Thranduil echoed, sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his pants-if there is anything at all that he enjoys about wearing these rags, it’s the amount of pocket space.

“You look tired,” he commented absently, tilting his head back to stare at the stars that look more like bygone constellations than anything else; Thranduil remembered the canopy of stars above his father’s house in the forest, and always would. His childhood had been spent in the trees of the place he called the Greenwood, nights of stargazing and days of fishing and hiking. It had been idyllic, to say the least.

“I am tired,” Bard shrugged, drawing him from his brief nostalgia. “But that’s nothing new, you know? My shifts have been all over the place lately, otherwise I would have gone for another walk with you.”

“Your sleep cycle is going to be irreparably damaged,” he narrowed his eyes at the other, pursing his lips in slight concern.

“As will your eyes from reading all that fine print,” Bard countered easily, and he’s not wrong. His vision is already beginning to blur in his left eye, and he’s already made an appointment to see an optician about it, get some glasses.

“Legolas says I should get a monocle,” Thranduil said, a fond smile tugging at his lips as they head further out into the cool night, the intermittent flickers of streetlight the only things that break the quiet darkness.

“Please don’t,” he feigned a look of true horror, grinning faintly. “Glasses would look good on you, though.”

“Of course they would,” Thranduil murmured, fighting the flutter of his heart that came with the casual compliment. It’s not as if it was anything new-Bard had been handing them to him since they’d met, in the most endearing yet awkward way, and Thranduil had always, always ignored him, ignored the light stirs of emotion inside him they brought.

“You look annoyed, though,” Bard turned to him, raising an eyebrow. Thranduil simply looked at him, intent on remaining silent and huffing a sigh as they passed under a streetlight. He tried very hard not to notice how the yellow light brought out the warmth in Bard’s eyes, or how it played off his hair like a halo, his entire silhouette bathed in it.

“I am. Thorin bloody Durin demanded I take this case,” he found himself explaining, the words falling out of his mouth in a cascade he was unable to stop.

“Is he related to the poor boy Tauriel keeps tormenting?” Bard remarked offhandedly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Yes, he’s their uncle, though that’s not relevant here. Why, do you know him?”

“Only in passing. He came up to yell at her, and found Bilbo.” Thranduil blinked at that information-he’d only met Bilbo Baggins a handful of times before, but he seemed a quiet sort, nice but meek. Innocent, with wide eyes and wildly curly hair, Bilbo Baggins looked like the stereotypical mild-mannered English teacher, or a librarian. Perhaps a particularly mild grocer. Certainly not the type of person that deserved to be yelled at.

“What an ass,” Thranduil commented, a flare of irritation rising within him.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. Bilbo’s been messing with his lights nonstop now,” Bard offered, a small grin on his face. “Different motives than Tauriel and myself, I assure you.”

Thranduil laughed quietly, the low chuckle escaping his throat almost against his better nature.

“Well, I’d hope not. I’d think that Bilbo deserves better, wouldn’t you?”

“Mm,” Bard hummed, noncommittal. “You were saying, though?”

“Ah, yes.” Thranduil nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the slightly damp pavement in front of him, and how it glimmered with the light from the streetlamps. “Well, he barged into my doorway, demanded I take this case up against Smaug, of all people, and kept me from being on time to our rendezvous.”

“How bout that,” Bard’s eyes widened as he took the information in. “Is he finally suing Smaug for the truly awful wiring?”

“Unfortunately, it’s a lot bigger than that. Apparently Azog is the selfsame one who nearly ruined their company, under Smaug’s order, of course, and both went to jail for it. I briefly considered helping them during that trial, but…extenuating circumstances prevented me from seriously taking the case. In any event, Smaug and Azog are out, and through Azog’s son, they’re attempting a hostile takeover of the company. Dís Durin, that’s Thorin’s sister, she runs the company now. Their father died in a fire, just after the trial, and their other brother ran away, if I’m not mistaken. She wants to resist it, and so does Thorin, even if he’s not actively involved in the company anymore. So, they came to me,” Thranduil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It sounds like they’re desperate,” Bard said, quietly. “She’s about to lose everything she’s worked for, everything she’s built up.”

“I’m not-I can’t do it,” Thranduil shook his head. “I can’t take the case, and seeing as Smaug owns the building I live in, it’d be unwise of me to aggravate him by taking the case.”

“Right, of course,” Bard replied, his voice heavy with some unnamed emotion. Thranduil glanced over at the man, but his face was distant, unreadable. So different from the man that always made the effort to smile at him while they did the laundry, so different from the man that played with his lighting to get a rise out of him.

Thranduil opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to say.

“Let’s just keep walking,” Bard told him, refusing to meet his eye. And they did, finishing their usual circuit in silence where there used to be conversation, the quiet whirs of city life settling over them like a blanket.

!~!~!~!

Thranduil glared at the redhead currently occupying the space in front of his desk-who glared fearlessly right back. This was utterly ridiculous-she’d spent the better part of an hour nagging him about the case, no doubt due to her ridiculous obsession with Thorin Durin’s nephew and Dís Durin’s younger son. The lad was loud, with a bright smile and a sparkle in his eyes, and a propensity for pranking that rivaled Legolas’ younger years. He shuddered to think of what would happen should they get together-he’d have to get new locks and keys for everything he owned, as would Bard and the other occupant of their apartment, the curly-haired man called Bilbo.

He’d also have to live by candlelight, since the two were sure to blow a fuse while engaging in the juvenile ‘Light Game’, as Bard affectionately called it. Luckily, he’d largely stopped, only flashing them on and off as a signal for when he was going on a walk.

“Yes, Tauriel,” Thranduil gritted out, pinching the bridge of his nose. His paralegal was utterly incorrigible, really-it was lucky that she was invaluable, the best at the firm. “I am fully aware of your…infatuation with the youngest Durin. But that will not sway me from my decision.”

“Sir, all I ask is that you give this case a chance. Erebor, Inc. has been doing quite well-if it is a question of money-,” the insufferable girl started, her fiery red brows drawn down into a determined ‘v’.

“It’s not about the money,” he broke in. All he wanted to do was look at the other cases, delegate them to the associates now clustered about the glass walls of his office to witness another legendary clash between their employer and their best paralegal. How he regretted putting those in-being gawked at while he was trying to shut Tauriel up did little to improve his mood.

“Then what is it?” she demanded, glaring at him. Thranduil felt the migraine coming on already.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he replied loftily, hoping that the warning injected into his non-answer would be enough to make Tauriel back down.

“Nor would I, especially with no valid reasoning,” she spat back, her eyes narrowed. “Sir, you must take this case. You’re sure to win, it will bring prestige to the firm-,”

“The firm already has enough prestige,” he tried to refrain from shouting, but his patience was wearing far too thin.

“And yet it doesn’t have enough to lose yet another case,” she muttered, straightening her back and crossing her arms adamantly. Thranduil scowled fiercely-he didn’t need to be reminded of the fiasco with the last case, where the prosecution had somehow miraculously shown up with files that Thranduil was _sure_ he had the only copy of. “Mr. Durin said that Smaug set up a tap on your phone.”

That would explain it.

Son of a _bitch._

Blasted woman, she’d been waiting to drop that tidbit from the beginning, hadn’t she? It explained the string of recent losses-Thranduil always relied on his opponents uncertainty of his actions, while planning his own with Tauriel, usually over the phone, or in his apartment. But if it had been bugged, and he felt a rush of cold fury at the thought, then all that would be for naught. He knew that he’d lost this argument, even as he snatched the folder from her slim hands viciously, ignoring the smug smirk on her face.

“Call Dís Durin,” he snapped, not looking up from the pages in the file. He wouldn’t call the woman himself, not until he had decided what, exactly, it was that she was keeping from him, and how to get it out of her. There was always something missing in the files he was given, sometimes even the smallest of things, though those often made the largest difference. “Tell her I’ll take the case.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’d lost this argument, but Smaug had declared war. And Thranduil was going to give him a battle to the death.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And more Bilbo, some Thorin. Interaction becomes more friendly, than anything else. A bit short, Bilbo's tuning out the legal stuff because really, he's no idea what any of it even means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologizes for taking so long >.

Bilbo sighed, absently flicking the light switch in the kitchen (conveniently hooked up to the unpleasantly attractive lumberjack-esque fellow downstairs), as had rapidly become his habit. His flatmates were surprisingly silent-Tauriel typing away at her tablet, folders upon folders of papers stacked next to her on the couch she’d quickly claimed as her own two days ago-and she hadn’t moved since. Bard was passed out in sweatpants on his bed, his soft snores barely audible as they drifted through the open door of his room, dirty enough to make Bilbo cringe, but organized enough to garner some measure of redemption.

Perhaps he’d clean it later, he mused idly, tapping the switch one last time before ambling over to the stove, twisting the knob to turn the gas on with a flicker of ultramarine as the flame ignited.

“Mint?” he called out, loud enough that Tauriel could hear him through her headphones-most likely blasting Dubstep, as was her new fancy. Personally, Bilbo couldn’t stand it.

“Please,” she responded a half-second later, and he nodded, humming to himself as he set out two teabags-one mint, one Earl Gray-and two mugs for them.

“Should be enough,” he mumbled to himself, hefting the weight of the kettle, water sloshing within it in response.  “Should be ready in say, ten minutes?”

A vague grunt of affirmation followed; Tauriel had probably already slipped her headphones back on, effectively silencing the world around her, turning it off so she could focus completely. Bilbo had always envied that about her, the singular ability to simply ignore all distractions-for him, his mind was forever abuzz, dancing from one thought to another like a hummingbird flashing from flower to flower.

It was probably why he hadn’t been able to finish his second novel, and almost certainly why he’d only managed to finish the first after two and a half years-more, if he included the planning and editing stages. And yet here he’d almost broken that record, with two years spent already and only half the bloody book written. And he’d been unable to even look at the Word document on his battered old laptop.

The worst case scenario for any author: the impossible writer’s block.

“Bilbo?” Tauriel’s voice drew him from his reverie with a  start, and he shook his head, as if to shunt away all the unwanted thoughts.

“Yes, I’m right here,” he leaned against the kitchen doorway, glancing at her.

“You know the apartment downstairs, right? The one Kíli lives in?”

“Your little crush? I do know it, now that you mention it,” he gave her a cheeky grin at the flush that immediately suffused the high points of her cheekbones.

“Yes well that’s neither here nor there now,” she huffed, rolling her eyes, though the color didn’t quite fade. “He lives with someone else, his uncle-,”

“Oh.” Bilbo felt a small ball of dread coalesce in his stomach, dense and heavy as a black hole. “I know him, I think.”

“I should hope so, since he’s the one that got you started on the whole light thing,” she remarked, a bit flippantly for his taste. Bilbo merely scowled at her, gesturing for her to continue. “Anyway, I need you to go fetch him. Just ask for Thorin Durin.”

“What, why?” his voice shot up nearly an octave, embarrassingly high and almost like a squawk. Not that he’d describe it in quite that way.

“Because I’m busy and Bard’s asleep,” she sighed, fond exasperation seeping into her tone. “Now get to, it’ll only take a few minutes to be there and back again.”

“Someone has to look after the kettle,” Bilbo blurted out, mentally berating himself as soon as the words left his mouth. What sort of excuse was that? For someone who made up universes for a living, he was a terrible, terrible liar.

“I can do that,” she said dismissively.

“Tauriel, the last time I left you to look after the kettle, all the water was evaporated and we’d gotten several angry complaints about the noise,” he shot back-that was better, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t even a lie, he’d had to deal with the dirty looks in the laundry room for months after the kettle incident (he liked to call it the Teapot Dome Scandal, sometimes).

“Yes, well you’ve eight minutes left or so before it boils and that happens again,” she informed him, her lower lip already starting to fall into a pout. Bilbo resolutely closed his eyes-he wouldn’t fall victim to her pout and puppy dog eyes, not again.

“Bilbo,” she ventured, and he screwed his eyes shut further. Maybe she would go if he didn’t-surely she could see how mortifying it would be for him? Then again, she managed to look Kíli and his brother unflinchingly in the eyes, even when it was her meddling with the lights that had caused the blond to move into the apartment across the hall. He’d seemed to have lucked out, too, as none of the switches in their apartment had ever managed to do anything to it-and Tauriel had tried, especially when Legolas informed her that Kíli spent nights with his brother quite often.

“Biiilbo,” she drew his name out, a slightly cold finger prodding at his cheek forcefully. And then again. And again. And-

“Oh blast it, I’ll do it, just bloody stop that, alright?” he glared at her, and even as the words left his mouth, her expression transformed to one of utter glee.

“Alright, off you go!” she replied cheerily, a grin practically splitting her face. She was worse than his Took cousins, sometimes, and that was a thought to balk at.

“Hmph.” He gave her one last, dirty look, one that hopefully conveyed the enormity of his disdain for her in that moment, before he exited their shared flat, stepping into the dimly lit hallway that always smelt of musty carpeting and copious amounts of incense-probably Radagast, if he was to be quite honest. At least, he hoped it was only incense.

He walked down the winding flight of stairs-far less risky than the elevator, though it had the aura of a particularly shady alleyway in a seedy neighborhood. At least he wouldn’t get stuck in that, and he was rather terrified of enclosed spaces, ever since he’d been trapped in a dark cave as a child, with no conceivable way out, and only the ravings of a madman in the dark to keep him company.

 _“Gollum, Gollum_ ,” the sound washed over him from his memory, the rolling, wet cough stuck in the pale man’s throat as he inched closer, a phantom from years past.

“No,” Bilbo shook his head, quelling his racing heart and dispelling faded vision in his mind. He hurried down the stairwell after that, not stopping until he reached the front door of the apartment below him. He could only hope that it would be Kíli that answered the door, not his lumberjack of an uncle. Thorin Durin. He mulled over the name as he knocked on the door-it was almost a half-rhyme, or was it a slant rhyme? Poetry had never been his forte, and he strongly stood by the belief that a poorly-written sonnet could easily kill a relationship, whereas a well-written one might only do a small amount of damage.

The sound of footsteps-slow, perhaps a bit groggy?-approached closer to the door. Please, please be Kíli, Bilbo chanted to himself, crossing his fingers. Please, oh please.

The door opened.

“You’re not Kíli,” Bilbo stared at Thorin Durin with wide eyes, wincing at the disappointment that he could hear in his voice.

“And you are the one who keeps messing with my lights,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. His voice was a sleep-doused rumble that Bilbo could practically _feel_ vibrating from his throat.

“Yes, well, if you’re going to accuse me, you might as well be right about it,” he replied, perhaps a bit snippily, though it’s not as if anyone could fault him.

“What do you want?” Thorin sighed, reaching up to run a hand through his rather obvious bedhead. Oh. Oh dear, he’d woken him up.

And the other appeared to sleep shirtless. And was alarmingly muscular and toned.

“Tauriel,” he replied immediately, tongue tripping over the right words. At Durin’s look of utter confusion, he flushed, backpedaling to elaborate. “She uh, works for Thranduil? Is the original and actual culprit of the light fiasco? Fancies your nephew?”

“I know who she is.” Oh. Right then. This really could not get any more embarrassing for him, could it?

“She’s working now, so she just sent me to get you. Not sure what for, if I’m to be quite honest,” Bilbo cleared his throat, pointedly staring at the floor beneath his feet, trying to figure out what color the carpet was before it was trodden on thousands of times. Beige, maybe?

“I’ll be right up, then,” the other nodded, irritation briefly flashing across his face, though he made no motion to retreat back into his apartment, and Bilbo was still studying the carpet intensely.

“Would you like to come in, Mister….?” Thorin’s voice trailed off into a question, reminding Bilbo that he had not, in fact, introduced himself.

“Baggins, Bilbo Baggins,” his name rushed out of his mouth, and he extended a hand, offering the other a weak smile. “Pleasure to meet you…again.”

“Under better circumstances, to be sure,” he rumbled, waving Bilbo inside and to a seat in the small living room. As soon as Bilbo stepped into the apartment, he noticed one thing-that it was boiling hot there. No wonder Thorin had been shirtless-he lived in the place, whereas Bilbo had just walked in and could already feel himself beginning to sweat.

“It’s boiling in here,” he mumbled, fanning himself lazily with a hand.

“Yes well, that’s what happens sometimes when Azog…,” his voice faded away with the quiet closing of a door-probably a bedroom, leaving Bilbo to look around the apartment. It was much like his own, though nowhere near as homey. No, this was austere, with cool colors everywhere and an almost minimalist design. A sleek flat-screen TV occupied much of the wall before him, with gaming consoles piled up next to it, and videogames strewn near the floor. Kíli’s, then.

There were few pictures, too, just one of Thorin and his nephews, and another of them with a woman who greatly resembled Thorin-their mother, probably his sister, he assumed.

“Let’s go,” Thorin brushed past him, and Bilbo stood up hurriedly, his eyes abandoning their perusal of the room and settling firmly on the way Thorin’s muscles bunched at the sleeves of his T-shirt as he held the door open. And quite possibly at a spot lower down his back, though his glances at it were certainly _not_ respectable. His dear old father was probably turning over in his grave right now.

“Y-yes,” Bilbo stuttered out, all the while cursing his tongue as he scurried out of the apartment, the cooler air of a hallway ensconcing him in a relieving embrace.

Thorin closed the door behind him and headed to the stairs, the silence between them stifling and only broken by their footfalls-Thorin’s heavy thumps against the carpet, Bilbo’s barely audible. He chewed nervously on his lower lip as they ascended the staircase, the trip up seeming to take almost an eternity through that horrifically awkward silence.

“Why does-?”

“So you-,”

Bilbo blinked, clearing his throat and waiting for Thorin to finish his words-he’d spoken as soon as Bilbo had, though it would only be polite for him to let the other finish. At least he hadn’t lost that much of his respectability, thank you very much.

“So you live with Tauriel?” Thorin continued, tentatively this time, his back still to Bilbo.

“Yes, her and Bard,” he murmured quietly in response. “I would have gathered that you knew that, seeing as you have actually been to our apartment before.”

“Well, yes,” Thorin paused at the top of the stairs, turning his head to look at Bilbo rather helplessly.

“Why does Tauriel want to see you?” he asked, plunging right in. He certainly hoped that she hadn’t decided to do something ridiculous like start a relationship with Kíli’s uncle in order to get him to fall for her further-not that the boy needed any help at all, though she never listened when he informed her of that.

A flicker of green-hot envy rose within him at the thought, though he quashed it immediately-absolutely ridiculous of him to start thinking that he had some _claim_ on Thorin. Sure, he was attractive, that Bilbo could not deny, but all they’d done was yell at each other.

“She and Thranduil are working a case for me,” he replied, enunciating every word carefully, though his voice was low, a rasp of a whisper.

“Oh,”  Bilbo cleared his throat, the ridiculousness of his previous thought making him flush. “Well. You’ve got the best working for you, after all.”

“That’s why Dís chose them,” he muttered, looking highly displeased about it.

“You dislike Tauriel,” Bilbo narrowed his eyes, giving the other a harsh glare.

“No, Tauriel is fine. It’s Thranduil that I dislike,” he elaborated, coming to a halt before Bilbo’s door, dull, faded wood so unlike the cheery green of Bag End.

“Yes, well, don’t let Bard hear you say that,” Bilbo chuckled to himself, opening the door. The lock had long stopped working, and he’d simply fasten the old-fashioned bolt at night-and he’d not bothered with that today.

“Bard? This would be the other flatmate, yes?”

“It would,” Bilbo nodded, stepping into the deafening din of a shrieking kettle, while an oblivious Tauriel still paged through her files. “She’s right there!” This time, he had to shout to make himself heard, even as he darted to the kitchen to remove the kettle from the stove, deftly pouring the boiling water into both mugs.

“Would you like anything to drink?” he called out to Thorin, who had settled on the couch next to Tauriel, peering intently at the file she was gesturing to.

He simply shook his head in response, even as Bilbo handed Tauriel her steaming mug before taking his usual spot in the armchair near the window. It reminded him most of his study in Bag End, though he realized with a pang that he’d likely not see it for a long, long time. His case, after all, was simply one out of the hundreds that Thranduil’s firm handled, though the blond was doing so as a favor for him. Pro bono, but for a friend, he’d called it with a quicksilver smirk as he’d snatched the file, piteously small compared to the ones in the open cabinet in his apartment.

“So, this deed here, it’s in your company’s name, right? But the land itself is occupied by Moria,” Tauriel started eagerly, though Thorin looked more uncertain than anything else.

“I would have to ask Dís, she knows more of the company’s holdings than I,” he replied uncomfortably, pulling out a phone and shooting off a quick text, presumably to Dís. Bilbo simply sipped his tea, tipping his head back and letting their conversation-rife with legal jargon, and other words he didn’t quite understand, though they sounded vaguely familiar, flow over him.

Certainly, it was very different from their first interaction, he thought drowsily as he stared out the window, half-dreaming of a lush, green sprawl of a lawn carpeting the ground outside, rather than the dun gray of dilapidated buildings and a forever overcast sky.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili and Fili are now considerably worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some regular updates :)  
> I can't exactly let this story die (I love it too much, tbh)

If anyone asked Kíli, he would have said that the world around him had gone utterly insane-not, of course, that anyone had thought to ask his opinion.

“Fee,” he shoved his brother for the fourth time in ten minutes, ineffectually trying to get the other’s attention-Fíli could be quite stubborn at times, lording his scant three more years on this earth over Kíli as if it was some sort of crown.

“What is it now, you brat?” Fíli responded, though his eyes remained trained on the screen before him. A screen, more important than his own brother? His flesh and blood? Kíli very much doubted that.

“I think we should call Mum,” he blurted out.

“What, why?” Well, that certainly got his attention.

“Uncle Thorin’s been acting weird,” Kíli frowned, unsure of how to convey his meaning-weird didn’t even begin to cover his uncle’s behavior. He was up at all hours of the night, and even cooking, only to disappear (with all the food) for days on end before turning up again, never bothering to leave a note or any indication of where he’d gone.

“He’s always been weird, you know that,” Fíli shrugged, and Kíli groaned in frustration-how could one human possibly be that dense?

“This is different, though. He’s never there, and he doesn’t even talk to me anymore, Fee!” The unspoken ‘and I’m his favorite’ hung in the air between them, a cold fact that neither brother had quite been able to approach just yet. “When was the last time he talked to you, huh?”

“Well,” Fíli blinked, finally looking away from his laptop to stare at Kíli, confusion furrowing his brow. “He normally texts me every day or so, just to check in when he can’t stop by for a visit.”

“And has he been doing that?”

“No,” his brother murmured, relenting and straightening his back. “But what would calling Mum do? They haven’t spoken in years, remember?”

“Yeah, but can you think of anyone else that can read people like her? If anything, she’ll at least be able to tell us if something’s going on,” Kíli hedged, teeth worrying at his lower lip.

“Stop biting your lip,” Fee ordered him, albeit absentmindedly. “What if Uncle is seeing someone? He sure as hell won’t appreciate us telling Mum about it, and certainly not it being the thing that brings them back together.”

“Who’d want to date Uncle?” he raised an eyebrow, looking at his brother in confusion. “The only interaction he’s had with anyone outside our family is Tauriel’s roommate.”

“The one he yelled at?”

“The very same,” Kíli nodded vehemently. “And you can see why that’s out, right? Mister Boggins is quite nice, too nice for a grump like Uncle.”

“I don’t know how nice he is, messing with the lights,” Fíli pointed out with a sigh, falling backwards onto his couch. “But he’s quite a nice chap, Uncle probably scared him to death with the yelling, you know how he gets.”

“But, you know, if he didn’t,” Kíli started slowly, bringing his chin to rest on his knees.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Would you just let me finish?” he shot his brother an irritated glare before continuing, “Tauriel says that Mister Boggins has a spine of mithril under the jumpers and curls.”

“Didn’t you just say it was impossible for them to be-?” Fee started, exasperated with his brother’s contradiction. Kíli knew that tone all too well, especially the note of patience that it resonated with; many a rainy afternoon had it been used as they lay on the hardwood floor of the study as their parents chatted back and forth, the fireplace at their backs and the floors warm under their bodies.

“I don’t know. I mean, Mister Boggins is kind of cute, like if Uncle went for cute, then he’d go for Mister Boggins,” he rambled, shutting his eyes.

“Kee, what’s your point? I like cute but you don’t see me pouncing on Bilbo Baggins’ pert ass,” he could practically hear his brother rolling his eyes.

“But you admit it’s pert, which you wouldn’t know unless you looked.” Kíli paused, sitting ramrod straight and narrowing his eyes at the other. “You _looked._ ”

“His pants were quite snug,” he muttered in defense, crossing his arms. That was a new revelation, to be sure. “But it’s beside the point.”

“It is not! If he can snare one Durin with the apparently pert ass, why can’t he snare another?”

“He hasn’t snared me!” Fíli protested, throwing his arms in the air. “I’m just saying that he’s got a nice ass. Hell, Legolas has a nice ass, it doesn’t mean anything!”

“You’ve got a thing for Legolas?” Kíli mock-gasped, his eyes and mouth wide in shock-perhaps he was milking it a bit, but really, it was far too much fun to tease his brother.

“Shut up, Kee, you know I haven’t,” he grumbled, slumping on the sofa.

“So we call Mum?”

“Yes, we call Mum,” Fíli groaned out, sounding very much exhausted. “Just, if she yells at us, it’s your fault, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Kíli conceded as he pulled out his phone, quickly dialing their mother’s cell. He has long learned to pick his battles, and winning that one was enough for the day.

The phone rang, the only sound piercing the near-deathly silence of Fíli’s apartment. And rang. And rang. And-

“What? Could it be my children?” their mother’s voice sounded over the phone as she finally picked up, identical grins lighting up the brothers’ faces.

“I don’t know, Mum, I’d heard they were in jail,” Fíli joked, leaning in closer to the phone.

“No, if they were in jail they’d likely call more to whine about hard beds and being bored,” Dís shot back good-naturedly. Kíli smiled wider; it had been far too long since they’d spoken to their mother, let alone seen her, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until now. 

“I’m sorry, Mum,” they chorused, her responding laughter suffusing the flat, tinny, though it brought a new life to the place.

“How are you two?” she asked, and Kíli could picture her settling down in the nearest armchair, her stern brown relaxing and her  mouth curving into a smile. She was probably still wearing her reading glasses-she always forgot to take them off-, and shooing away Balin (undoubtedly waving some form of paperwork in her face).

“We’re fine, Mum-,”

“Missing you tons, really-,”

“Absolute loads, I’m telling you, London is so-,”

“Grey, and wet,” Kíli finished disconsolately-he had hated the rain, always preferring the sun and the warmth it brought. And, of course, the opportunity to go outside, roam the countryside and woods around his home.

“Yes, well, that’s what you get for moving there for uni,” Dís sounded tired, her words weighted down by some exhaustion-and from the look on Fíli’s face, he heard it too.

“What’s wrong, Mum? You sound tired,” he started, pushing his blond hair back out of his face. Kíli scooted closer to him on the couch, the press of their shoulders enough to ground him, lessening the pang of worry shooting through his chest. Mum worked so hard, too hard, he thought sometimes, for the company-and all Kíli saw was the stock prices dropping, bits and pieces of it hacked off to opportunistic buyers.

“Company work,” she sighed, and Kíli could picture her raking a hand through her hair-just like Fee and Uncle Thorin did when exhausted or frustrated. “There are some things happening, loves, and not necessarily good. Are you in the flat, now?”

“Ye…es,” Kíli answered hesitantly, not at all sure of what that had to do with anything.

“Right,” she replied after a long pause. “I’d really rather the two of you come for a visit, I know the semester’s all but done.”

“I…okay,” Fíli responded almost immediately, though the pause that cut off his question was evident. Kíli looked at his brother indignantly; driving an elbow into his ribs-he didn’t want to leave quite yet, though he missed his mum terribly. He hadn’t even gotten to go to Ori’s usual get-together, always a good time with his close friend, not to mention that Tauriel sometimes showed up with Legolas.

“Good, I’ll see you, say, a week and a half from now?” she asked, relief evident in her tone. What was she not telling them?

“Yes, Mum,” they nodded, though she couldn’t see. “We love you.”

“Love you too, boys,” Dís murmured. “More than anything, you know that, right?”

“Of course we do,” Kíli whispered, a knot forming in his throat. Her words did nothing to assuage his worries-if anything, they multiplied, banging around in his chest and brandishing sharp knives, demanding attention.

“Is your uncle there, by any chance?”

“What the f-,” Fíli exploded first, blurting the words out, sounding as confused as Kíli felt.

“Language, dearest.”

“What’s going on?” he composed himself, taking a deep breath. “Uncle vanishes for days on end, has barely said a word to either of us, and here you are asking after him for the first time in years?”

“It’s complicated. Company stuff,” she said, the exhaustion returning to her tone. It wasn’t right, their mum was always full of life, her voice bright and teasing-she shouldn’t sound this tired.

“Will you tell us when we get there?” Fíli whispered into the phone, his voice barely audible.

“I promise. I love you both, but I have to go now.”

“Love you too,” they murmured, the line cutting off before they had a chance to hang up. Kíli swallowed, anxiety bubbling in his stomach in a way that it hadn’t-not since he’d started the meds almost seven years ago.

“Something’s very wrong, Fee,” he choked on the words, looking into his brother’s wide eyes. All he could do was nod, and wrap an arm around him. The embrace that Kíli always, always felt secure in did nothing to soothe the fear simmering inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the major action is going to start happening, and I'm probably going to need to do a shit ton of research into mergers and lawyer-y stuff and I'm not really looking forward to that because it's going to take some time. But I'll try for it. Yes.


End file.
